


War Stories

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [44]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is Alive and Well, Blue Hawke, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Anders during the rebellion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_9:40 Dragon, Firstfall_

The last of Kinloch Hold’s mages huddle together at the edge of the lake, reaching out to take the magebane-dazed woman Hawke’s been supporting since the dungeons. The air is cold and biting but the shimmer of warming spells clings to their skin, even as they slip and stumble on the ice in shoes never meant for the outdoors, awkward with the weight of heavy packs over their shoulders.

Lake Calenhad is frozen solid, a dusting of snow on top of ice thick enough to walk across. Cracked and gouged here and there by the fighting. Figures in the distance moving slowly and steadily across the ice and away from the tower, picking their way along the ruins of the old Tevinter bridge, wisp lights hovering ahead of them under the overcast sky.

It’s all eerily quiet. There’s still smoke pouring from one of the windows of the tower, but here there’s just the soft shuffling of footsteps in the snow, and the echoing of his own steps in the empty halls of the tower as he heads back inside.

The shelves of the library have been stripped half empty, books vanished into those overloaded packs now making their way across the lake. And Hawke passes through one heavy door after another designed to be locked and barred, rests a hand against the wall, following the pattern of faint spirals ornamenting the stone, the same pattern climbing across the ceiling high overhead. Windows letting in a faint spill of light, too high to do anything except illuminate the dust motes in the air.

It’s hard for him to imagine Anders growing up here. Like sleeping in a chantry.

In the first enchanter’s office, he finds Anders still where he’d left him, sitting in front of a cabinet with a lock blasted open, records spread about the floor around him. Hair kept short to avoid looking like his wanted posters has just started to grow long enough to flop into his eyes, and he’s got one hand twisted through it, looking at the mess of papers and maps in frustration.

Hawke sinks down beside him, and a brush of Anders’ shoulder brings with it a frisson of restless Fade energy strong enough to catch his breath. “That’s the last of them. Tower’s empty.”

And he can smell the fire burning just down the hall, and they should really go. But Hawke turns his head to look at the papers in front of him, the book of records lying open. A row of signatures from a Knight-Captain Hadley in the first enchanter’s absence—that would be the man who’d barricaded the doors, then. A stranger to Anders, same as most of the other residents of the tower had been. Nearly everyone he’d known had been transferred elsewhere after the disaster during the Blight. The only people who’d recognized him had been the Tranquil running the storeroom and one lyrium-addled templar.

Pages of names and dates. A shipment of prisoners sent off to Aeonar just days ago, delivered to an unnamed contact with no hint at the route they were following. One Rite of Tranquility performed in the past five months with Irving’s signature beside it, and then six in the last fortnight signed by Hadley, after news of the uprising at Val Royeaux started to spread, after the first enchanters had all gathered for the conclave and never came back and the templars started to panic.

Nothing about the much-rumored cure for Tranquility. Of course not. That would have been too easy.

With a sigh, Anders abandons the papers, sits back. Looks around the office in disarray, the silent tower. And when Hawke touches his hand, Fade energy curls around his fingers, visible, a thread of blue light.

“This is really happening,” Anders says softly, meeting his eyes with a flicker of a disbelieving smile on his lips, and Hawke can’t help an answering smile.

When they walk back to the stairs, Anders points out his old room. It’s the one on fire. And Anders wasn’t the one who set it, but he starts laughing as they descend through the levels of the tower.

“This place doesn’t change,” he marvels, staring up at a portrait dominating one wall, an armed and armored man looking grim. “I always hated that painting. Another giant sword hanging over our heads, that’s just what we need. I did leave, didn’t I? I didn’t just imagine that? Same ugly paintings, same robes they were handing out when I was a kid, probably the same exact spiders in the storeroom… Mages come and go, but the Circle is eternal.”

“Hopefully not.”

Anders flashes him a grateful smile, the Fade crackling in the space between them, and for a moment he sees a younger version of Anders who’d left this place only to find himself brought right back again, over and over. And he brushes his fingers over the back of Anders’ hand. “I mean that. No one’s getting dragged back here again.” A promise.

“No.” There’s a second, deeper undertone running through Anders’ voice, and he watches Hawke speculatively. “No, you’re right. And right now I feel like I could…” He trails off without finishing his thought, looking up at the ceiling high above. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good. I always love when you get terrible ideas.”

Anders gives him a startled glance, then a quick laugh, shaking his head. “Brace yourself.”

He follows Anders’ gaze to the ceiling, and then the prickling sensation of Anders’ protective barrier slides over Hawke’s skin. A flash of light and the smell of ozone and then the ceiling is cracking, shifting, sliding sideways with a groan of stone that rolls on and on, a storm of dust and debris raining down and glancing harmlessly off the shield around them, blotting out his vision.

And when at last it stops, when the cloud has settled and the roaring around them has faded to a ringing in his ears, a drop of freezing rain splashes onto his skin, falling through where the ceiling used to be, and all the levels of the tower that used to be above it.

“Oh,” he says, uncertain of the volume of his own voice. “Oh, Maker.”

And he’s not sure when he took hold of Anders’ arm but he can feel the sting of that spell pricking at his palms, Justice’s light breaking through the dust that coats Anders’ skin.


	2. Chapter 2

“Have you been back to Lothering?” Carver asks Hawke, looking up at the griffon statue guarding the crossroads where they’d agreed to meet, the foot of it buried in snow.

“I didn’t realize there was anything to go back to.”

“Not really. I wouldn’t try planting anything, but it’s safe enough to travel through now. Someone put up one of these statues where the chantry used to be.”

Seems like every crossroad and field between here and the Frostbacks has their own griffon statue, the site of some battle where the Hero of Ferelden had personally appeared. This one’s not nearly as grand as some of the others he’s seen. Looks a bit like Andraste’s Mabari with a pair of wings tacked onto the back.

Hawke watches the trio of mages he’s been escorting, now gathered around the Wardens’ horses, deep in discussion with Velanna and Anders. No one looks happy. He’s not surprised. The youngest of the three has been quietly dismayed at the thought of having to ride a horse ever since it occurred to him, and Illna’s spent the whole trip demanding that Anders explain the Joining to her satisfaction before she makes up her mind. She fought in the Battle of Denerim, as she keeps reminding them; she’s earned the right to know.

And Anders has broken Warden secrecy to some degree already, determined to let the prospective recruits know what they were getting into; talked about the nightmares, the things they’ve both seen in the Deep Roads. Larius. Hawke would have thought that would be enough to scare anyone off. But these three had stayed, ready to accept the Wardens’ offer of sanctuary for any apostate who’d take a life of fighting the monsters over a life of fighting the Chantry. And at least it’s their choice; they have the chance to make their own choice. There’s a kind of victory in that.

After a moment, he asks, “A Hero of Ferelden statue?”

“Yeah. Bigger than yours, too.”

His statue’s probably at the bottom of the harbor now. It’s not that hard to beat. “A Hero of Ferelden statue in a village that wasn’t saved?”

“Yeah.” Carver draws the word out with a wry smile, and he’s grown a beard since the last time Hawke saw him and it makes the expression look strange on him, makes everything look strange on him. They watch the discussion drag on, and Carver says, “Wonder what Bethany would have made of all this.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m back to hiding and you’re back to looking after us delicate mage flowers. Pretty much life as usual, isn’t it?”

Carver snorts, shakes his head. “Sure. Life as usual.”

* * *

They share a meal before the Wardens depart, making the short trip back to their campsite and giving the new recruits a chance to corner Carver with all the questions Velanna had managed to dodge. Hawke abandons him to it, retreating to a safe distance with Anders and Velanna and steaming mugs of tea while Velanna takes the opportunity to study Anders.

“This is… very strange,” she says. “You and Justice.”

“You should see it from my side,” Anders says with a grin that Hawke’s rarely seen on him, one that might have looked open and easy except that Hawke’s seen what Anders’ unguarded smiles actually look like, and this isn’t it.

Velanna wrinkles her nose. “I’ll pass.” She sips her tea and watches him over the rim of the mug. “Ironic. After all his talk of taking responsibility and making amends, teaching people—hm. I’m surprised he didn’t make you turn yourself in.”

The air around Anders pulses with Fade energy, faint, and Hawke wraps an arm around his waist. Justice’s presence is near constant these days, ever since Kinloch Hold, always running just under the surface.

“He doesn’t make—that’s not how it works.” Anders’ hand drifts down to cover Hawke’s, fingers still warm from being wrapped around a warm mug and a touch of elemental magic. “I did turn myself in, though. The champion of the city himself sentenced me to help him protect the mages.” Smiling as he says it. “And I’m trying, so—try to go easy on them.” He nods towards the recruits, and it takes Hawke a moment to realize what he’s talking about, to remember his own words when Anders had been sitting on that crate. He hadn’t realized Anders thought of it that way. “For Justice’s sake, if not for mine.”

* * *

A shuffling of belongings between packs and saddlebags, trying to solve the puzzle of how to balance all the relics rescued from the Circle, or stolen, depending on how he cared to look at it; Hawke’s scarf draped around the shoulders of the youngest of the mages, the one who struggles with warming spells, and Bethany was always the same way, her fires were always all or nothing; the clap of Carver’s hand on his shoulder; and then they’re off, the Wardens and their recruits headed back toward Amaranthine.

Hawke looks at Anders as he watches the horses retreat down the road. “About what you said to Velanna. You know I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

And the fond look Anders gives him is all out of place. It’s not a moment Hawke wants to be reminded of, and that was never meant to be a sentence. “If Justice needs to hear me say you’re free to go—you’re free to go.”

“I know,” Anders repeats gently. “But you asked me to protect the people who would have been punished in my place. Without even thinking about it. That means a lot.”

Warm-eyed and hopelessly sincere.

“Though I’m not sure helping them tie themselves to the Deep Roads really counts,” Anders adds, looking back to the mages. “I probably owe Velanna an apology. This all used to seem so much simpler.” Then his lips flicker. “…Is that your scarf?”

Hawke follows his eyes to the Wardens and their recruits just before they all turn the corner and disappear from sight, the green wool, and he rubs at the back of his bare neck. “Yeah, well. …Any chance I could convince you to knit me another?”

Anders leans in quick, kisses the corner of his mouth. And it seems too quiet as they set out on the road again, just the two of them, boots sinking into a thin layer of muddy snow.


	3. Chapter 3

_9:40 Dragon, Haring_

Their room in Highever overlooks the docks and smells a little like being back in Lowtown, tar and brine. And the tall window does nothing to keep out the cold but it gives Hawke a clear view of the street below, where traders are setting up stalls for the start of the winter market, and where a templar has stopped a woman from boarding a ship. As he watches, the templar goes over a sheet of papers, comparing her to sketches of the apprentices whose phylacteries had been destroyed at Kinloch Hold.

Rumor has it that the first enchanters who’d survived the revolt in Val Royeaux have taken over a fortress in western Orlais, offering refuge for everyone who’s fled the Circles since the uprising.  Either the rumor’s true and the templars will have heard about it too, or else it’s a trap the templars made up and at least a few mages will be caught by it. Either way, he and Anders have passage on the next ship heading west in a few days, as soon as the winter market is over. Years of barely seeing any changes at all, and now it feels like everything’s happening at once, everywhere at once.

The templar waves the woman through. Hawke turns away from the window.

“Maybe you should wear your mask after all,” he says to Anders. “At least until we set sail.”

“Orlesian masks in Ferelden, now that sounds like fun... _slightly_ less likely to get us run out of town than robes and staffs, maybe.” But Anders roots through the pack lying open on their bed anyway, and frowns. “What’s happened to yours? Did we sell that too?”

He had. But he was fairly certain they’d lost the Seeker tracking them back in Orlais, and besides, the last time Hawke saw one of his wanted posters, it had looked less like him and more like the guy on the cover of Varric’s book, the bearded rogue with kaddis smeared across his face. Hawke scratches at his freshly-shaved cheek and shrugs. “I’ll manage. How about you wear the mask and I play your manservant, messere?”

Anders looks up at him, eyes crinkling. “Tempting.” He shakes his head. “Come here.”

And as Hawke sits beside him on the edge of the bed, Anders slips the wool scarf from around his own neck and loops it around Hawke’s shoulders instead, tugging it around him until he’s muffled in it, until his identity is obscured to Anders’ satisfaction, mouth and nose hidden behind red wool that smells of Anders when he breathes in.

Out on the streets, he’s far from the only person so bundled up against the cold; and there are a few other people in Orlesian masks around the winter market, though usually working behind the stalls. The streets of Highever are crowded with shiny and brightly-colored trinkets, tables piled high with cheeses and smoked meats and jams and delicious spiced scents filling the air, lengths of fabric and yarn ready to be made into First Day gifts by the end of the month. He hasn’t seen a Fereldan-style holiday market of this size since he was a kid. His mother used to take him with her into Amaranthine, before his magic came in and they’d had to leave.

It’s all so normal. Like the uprisings in the Circles never happened.

When they find what’s supposed to be their contact with the Mages’ Collective, an Antivan import shop on a quiet side street, the door is locked and the windows dark. A sign indicates the owner will be away until the new year. And while Anders keeps watch at the corner, Hawke ducks around back and pokes around in the alley behind the building until he finds the Collective’s drop point, a box hidden behind a loose stone, marked with a shine of barely-visible lyrium dust and a misdirection enchantment to discourage accidental discovery. Empty, save for a message about an apprentice who’d gone missing over a month ago, before the uprising in Val Royeaux, and an old request to borrow a book. If there’s a new drop point or a new contact in the shop owner’s absence, there’s no indication of it; to all appearances, the local branch of the Mages’ Collective has gone silent.

He hadn’t expected much more. If any apostates are still in town, the sensible thing would be to keep their heads down, not risking getting mixed up in the hunt for escaped Circle mages. He might have done the same, not so long ago. Still, he’d hoped for some news, at least.

When he emerges from the alley, Anders is crouched down, his cloak trailing in snow turning to slush, and apparently listening intently to a wide-eyed little girl with intricate braids beneath a knit cap and a tight grip on his hand. As Hawke watches, a distracted man juggling several paper-wrapped parcels collects her, apologizing to Anders.

“I liked his feathers,” she declares.

Hawke grins, hidden behind the folds of his scarf. His own cloak is much like Anders’, the same feathers around the hood, but he’s never had small children stop him in the street about it.

But Anders always stands out in a crowd. People might not be able to sense Justice or the power that fills the space around him, might not be able to put their finger on why, but they notice him.

Hawke wishes the mask wasn’t necessary.

* * *

The price on his reward poster has been raised again, he discovers when he checks the Chanter’s board. He hasn’t seen the price go up since Varric’s book first came out. He would have thought the Chantry would have more urgent problems right now.

“Alive,” Anders says, sounding slightly stunned. Hawke glances at him, questioning, and Anders meets his eyes, nods to the poster, brows knitting. “The Chantry wants you  _alive_  now.” And sure enough, Seeker Pentaghast’s reward is only for his capture or information leading to it; no more ‘dead or alive.’

The Circles rise up, and all of a sudden the Chantry wants to get its hands on a living Champion. _Well, that’s a little terrifying._

There’s no poster for Anders, or if there is then it’s buried out of sight beneath more recent postings. There’s plenty of those, the overwhelmed Highever Templar Order requesting bounty hunters’ help tracking down a long list of apostates. A few of them are names he recognizes by reputation—First Enchanter Irving, Archmage Wynne—though the last anyone had heard of either of them, they’d been in Val Royeaux with the rest of the first enchanters, caught in the revolt. The board’s completely covered, the Chantry reaching out to all the citizens of Highever to do their part and report any suspected apostates in this difficult time. Urging them to use caution.

And somehow the Circle mages are going to have to make a place for themselves in the world in the middle of all this.

He takes Anders’ hand, squeezes, realizes Anders has let his warming spell lapse again. Like he doesn’t feel the cold. And Hawke slides a thread of elemental warmth invisibly over their linked fingers, wanting that touch of magic right now. A smile flickers on Anders’ lips.

And then Anders tears down one of the few requests that mention a location. A report of apostate activity outside of town, holed up in old raider caves along the cliffs; and the posting looks recent enough that maybe they can get there before anyone else less friendly does.

* * *

“Of course they’d want you alive,” Anders mutters as they pick their way over the barnacle-encrusted rocks along the coast. There’s not much in the way of snow on the ground here, yet the sea still manages to seem so much more grey in winter. Makes Hawke feel cold just looking at it, magic or no. “A nice symbolic victory they can parade in front of people? You’re just what the Chantry needs right now. It’s Meredith all over again.” Hawke has a brief vision of Meredith’s Tranquil assistant, but Anders continues, “Trying to use you to keep the rest of us in line. A name everyone will know—we have Varric to thank for this.”

“I thought you liked the book.”

“I do like the bloody book.” Punctuated with a sharp wave of his hand as if he’s stabbing the air, making Hawke grin. He really shouldn’t enjoy Anders’ frustration as much as he does, but he finds it oddly soothing. And there’s something about the hard line of his mouth when he gets worked up.

“I’m not planning on letting myself get captured any time soon, you know,” Hawke says. Adds, “I’m not going anywhere.” And this may be the thousandth time he’s said those words, and he doesn’t expect he’ll ever stop needing to say them, but it still makes Anders smile quick and bright. He ducks his head like that’s something he needs to hide, and soon resumes complaining about Varric’s book.

The sun’s setting by the time they make it to the caves, but they’re easy enough to find. Phosphorescent lichen faintly illuminates streaks of paint that might once have been old raider signs, and a winding tunnel ends at a wooden door that doesn’t quite sit right in its frame, a flicker of firelight showing around the edges.

The door swings open as they approach. And the familiar pressure of the Fade flares against his skin, and there’s a disorienting moment when he realizes that isn’t coming from Justice but from the haggard woman behind the door, looking from him to Anders.

“Still alive, I see,” says Flemeth.


End file.
